


Inconcinnity

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: Paternal Egality [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic Disputes, M/M, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Post Mpreg, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 09:58:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12862125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Will and Hannibal wage their latest war; across the dinner table, between the sheets, amid sips of bubbling champagne as their guests titter, the chorus betraying their performance.Hannibal’s gaze burns into his, merciless and demanding. He won’t let Will escape even into his own mind, commanding his attention with every thrust. Will’s resultant moans are a hymn of devotion to the living deity of death Hannibal considers himself to be.





	1. Chapter 1

Hannibal sleeps with one arm flung across Will’s stomach in casual possession. This is something he has always done, unhindered by his disgust for Will’s pregnancies. In fact, he recalls a time or two, waking to find one of Hannibal’s big paws spaced across his rounded stomach, claiming ownership in sleep. He’d hoped then, it was an unconscious paternal urge of protection, but has since come to think of it as suppression, pressing down on Will’s swollen flesh, as is to prevent any more growth. 

Not for the first time, he wishes his empathy gift worked better on Hannibal. That he could read his husband as effortlessly as he reads the selfish, crass, grasping people he meets on the street. That he could dissect him like a helpless bug, pulling out the cogs and pieces that make his clockwork tick.

Will stared up at the canopy of their four-poster bed, spread out on luxurious high-thread count sheets, and swallowed back a swell of emotion. His eyes were burning, suspiciously wet. He could not tolerate it; it was not to be borne.

He wakes Hannibal by shoving off the offending appendage, and pushing him flat onto his back. Maroon eyes regard him with hooded caution. Will isn’t going to flee; the window for escape closed on him years ago. There isn’t enough room in this entire town, let alone their spacious manor house, to evade Hannibal’s influence. Will feels him in every cobblestone, every ancient carving and delicate eave. Every fountain pours out his husband’s whispers, every rush of the tide along the harbour sings to him, of the blood Hannibal has spilt along the dusty streets. Hannibal is in the very air he breathes. 

Will climbs astride, swinging one leg over to straddle Hannibal’s lap. He sleeps only in expensive cotton trousers; one half of a set, that Will routinely wears the shirt half of, despite the wide shoulder making the neckline slopping around his collarbones, the sleeves falling to almost eclipse his fingers. Hannibal is so fucking pretentious, even his pyjamas are tailored, Will thinks harshly. He likes the way I look in his clothes, his own voice chides him. Because it brings out the safer hunger in him.

The evidence seems to support it, as Hannibal smooths one hand up Will’s naked hip, pushing up the too-large shirt to reveal a taught stomach, a hint of love handles where the baby weight never receded. He tugs Hannibal’s trousers down in rough pulls, just enough to let his cock spring free, already half hard by Will’s brisk commanding movements. Not a word passes between them as he levers up to his knees, a tease or two of enticing, gliding movements dragging that cock in, but practically no time wasted on foreplay at all, before Will’s inner walls are clutching at him, dragging him in.

A harsh exhale is the only indication Will gives of the sting, rolling his hips to better settle, focus the intrusion breaking him open. Hannibal helps with a hand on each hip, fingers digging into Will’s buttocks; not guiding, only stabilising. That greedy look in his eyes deepening into gratification when Will pushes up on his knees, plunging himself back down. He works a fast rhythm from the start, hair slicked across his forehead with sweat, mouth hanging open attractively as his throat works to gain air. He snaps their hips together, releasing an annoyed moan when Hannibal helpfully thrusts up. Will presses his hands to his shoulders, smoothing them down to his stomach, to prevent such input.

He slips and slides in mountains and valleys of his own creation; claws his own pleasure from the man below him, as he directs that cock where he wants it. Until he finds just the position to rub Hannibal against his sweet spot, clenching down tight, feeling the answering bruises grow where Hannibal’s fingertips are still splayed about his hips. He lets out a hitching sob, hoping it sounds like pleasure, and not hopeless fury. He throws his head back, eyes closed, so he need no longer look at Hannibal’s avaricious satisfaction any more. To keep up the pretence that this is his victory. He lets his mind float on sensation only, rolling the silky intrusion gliding into his body in concentrated flicks of his hips, until he comes with a wail, ignoring the scalding tear that slips down his cheek. Hannibal does not; he reaches up to wipe it away, and Will can’t help himself, leaning into the touch.

He lets Hannibal direct him to lie back in the rucked covers. Slipping free from his body as Will settles back into the more customary position. Will’s eyes stay closed, even as Hannibal lifts his knees up and open; spreading him bare, a specimen slit open with the caress of the knife. Will’s breath hitches, but he refuses to weep anymore, settling for digging his nails into Hannibal’s powerful shoulders, biting into the strong, defined muscle there. Hannibal fucks into him forcefully, hard jerks that have Will flying up the bed, caged in only by Hannibal’s hands dug into the space above his head. He moans at the rougher treatment, faster than the pace he set for himself. His eyes flutter open involuntarily when Hannibal presses a kiss to the side of his forehead, incongruous with his unforgiving pace. Will is defeated then, his resentment drowned by fatigue. He is so tired of these festering doubts, that creep up and startle him in unsuspecting moments. 

Hannibal’s gaze burns into his, merciless and demanding. He won’t let Will escape even into his own mind, commanding his attention with every thrust. Will’s resultant moans are a hymn of devotion to the living deity of death Hannibal considers himself to be. He comes almost silently, panting harshly into Will’s tangled nest of curls. Will lets himself be smothered for only a moment, before shunting Hannibal off him with an ungentle jostle, ramming him with the insistent press of his hands. Hannibal collapses into his side of the bed, satiated for now. 

Hannibal’s aging gracefully, but no longer accustomed to the once routine treat of morning sex. He’ll need time to recover, and Will takes advantage, rolling onto his side away from him. He could have impregnated himself with this, and allows himself a moment to imagine it; a small baby, wide eyes with tiny flexing curious fingers. A girl perhaps, with a lilting, unusual name. Cordelia, maybe. Something exotic and old-fashioned like that. He could be pregnant, but he won’t be. They’re too careful for that. Will allows himself a moment to close his eyes against the itch of tears he won’t allow to fall. Then he traipses into the en suite, tossing the nightshirt on the floor as he steps into the shower and pretends the water on his face is only that which spurts from the shower-head.


	2. Chapter 2

Will is surprised when Hannibal asks to see him in his study. They sometimes set aside meetings to discuss important issues; in another household it would probably be taxes, the family holiday, and whether or not they could afford a conservatory. The topics they discuss are rather different; art, sometimes, when Hannibal wants to disguise a moment free from the children as a date. But usually murder, or rather, the practicalities of it. Will is Hannibal’s alibi, after all. They discuss movements, occasionally the tableau. In the past, Will has requested particular cuts of meat.

Rarer still, they solidify plans to hunt together, on nights the children are occupied and there is little chance their absence will be missed. Will refers to his own nocturnal activities more accurately as fishing. Like Abigail, he prefers to be the lure. Whereas Hannibal is happy to hunt in the daytime, this is a risk Will would prefer neither of them take.

Those conversations generally take place in the library, however; a large, cavernous space the children are forbidden to enter without supervision. They speak in code regardless, referring to their night time dalliances as ‘work’. For a retired surgeon, current trauma therapist, Hannibal sure attends a lot of ‘conferences’ and ‘interdepartmental drinks’. But children are malleable, and easy to beguile. They believe what they are told. Still, Will does not anticipate this conversation to be along those lines. The change of venue, for one thing.

Hannibal’s study is his own private island, forbidden to the children perennially. Will scarcely feels more welcome. It is entirely stylised to Hannibal’s taste, with art above the huge mantelpiece, a desk for writing and sketching, beautiful books, and ancient curios. There’s even a bar, concealed in a priest hole. Will pauses in the doorway, unsure of his welcome, despite the invitation. He shuffles, awkwardly unnerved in his own home. This part, at least, is not his domain. He resists the urge to take off his shoes when Hannibal summons him in. Will has been in this room enough to notice the changes; two comfortable chairs that were side-along to form a relaxing reading space, now facing one another. Oddly reminiscent of Hannibal’s office in Baltimore. He doesn’t want to be the one to point it out.

“Please, take a seat,” Hannibal offers, referring to the chairs.

Will watches him suspiciously. When nothing more is forthcoming, he sighs. He doesn’t want to say it, but apparently no one else is going to.

“What is this?” Will waves a hand at the altered seating arrangements.

Hannibal tips his head minutely to one side, his version of a shrug. “A fit of nostalgia, perhaps, for the conversations we used to have.”

Will feels his lips purse, and intentionally relaxes, slowing his breathing and relaxing his limbs. His shoulders sag a little. “You want us to have a specialised conversation? How breathtakingly unprofessional of you, doctor.” He stiffens again in realisation, “Is this because I called you Dr Lecter at dinner? That was weeks ago.”

“It was,” Hannibal acknowledges, “And yet perhaps some part of me retained the knowledge in the hindbrain. To be brought forth as a reminder, that you too reminisce over our dramatic beginnings in my humble care.”

Will sends a contemptuous glare his way, but steps further into the de facto office. “I doubt your ‘care’, or anything else you do, could ever be described as humble.”

“Alas, one need only glance around my study to see it is not a good descriptor of my personality.” Hannibal agrees, settling himself into a seat. As with many of their sessions, Will wanders about the room, equating himself with the pieces of Hannibal he finds on display there.

Hannibal lets the silence drag out, until Will casts him an unimpressed eyebrow. “This isn’t my session, doctor. You were the one who requested it. So talk.”

“True,” he concedes, “But I believed I was handing you a tool you needed, to better express what you began to tell me this morning.”

“What I-” Will begins to ask him what he’s talking about, by flatly denying it. It works, until it doesn’t. “You mean with my body?”

“Précisément.”

Will snorts at the Hercule Piorot impression; it is a favourite of the boys; a television programme he hadn’t been aware Hannibal had paid the slightest attention to. He finally takes his seat, momentarily defeated.

“I want to know why,” Will begins, curling his fingertips into leather and retreating further into the plush seat than necessary for mere comfort. “Why you would try to manipulate me, using a potential baby to do it.”

“You still doubt my sincerity?” Hannibal asks, tone carefully even.

Will snorts. “That’s all I’m sure of. Your insincerity.”

The insult is absorbed with another head tilt, and thinned lips.

“You doubt me capable of paternal affection.”

“I find you incapable of many things.” Will snaps offensively, “I don’t know why you need to bring children into it.”

“Into the world at large? Or our household specifically?” Hannibal muses, deliberately obtuse.

“Stop it,” Will hisses, “Stop dancing around the subject as though this isn’t about us.”

“I apologise,” Hannibal concedes demurely, but Will’s fire is stoked.

“Do you? What are you sorry for? Attempting to play me? Or getting caught?” He steamrolls ahead when it seems Hannibal wants to say something more. “You feed me some bullshit about wanting another baby, expecting me to believe a word of it, knowing full well you don’t even want the children you have!”

Will’s raised voice crescendos, then drops into silence, leaving him breathless, the air charged with electricity. A single spark would fry them up. Hannibal’s stillness is a non-reaction, a sharpness in every line of him. The look of a predator, preparing to leap; but a flash of something more, in the eyes. That melancholy look again. Hurt.

“Do you truly believe so?” He asks, cautiously quiet, as though Will won’t hear the crackle cutting through his tone. Not smoothed and polished like it should be, when they muse philosophical quandaries.

Will regrets the admission, but has no doubt of his sentiment. “How could I believe anything different? It is the truth. Stark and simple.”

“Oh, Will.” Hannibal sighs, “I thought we had moved past such pedestrian, monochrome outlooks on the world.”

He stands then, suddenly enough to startle Will, who can’t help but flinch back into the leather. An ingrained response to a Hannibal he’s no longer used to; the monstrous god that inhabited his nightmares in Wolf Trap, and stalked his waking moments with the FBI.

Hannibal makes his way to the desk, using a tiny gold key to unlock a cabinet. He lifts a clutch of papers from it; a tall, crumpled stack, the pages crinkled in odd ways. Will soon sees why, when Hannibal deposits them into his lap; the paper has been marred by thick marks, in crayon, paint or other materials. Cut and shaped, or modified with glued-on additions, such as macaroni, or sequins.

Pictures. They are the boy’s pictures, the ones that made it to places such as the fridge. Proudly displayed by Will, in the attempt at a shred of similiarity to the American nuclear family. Hannibal had never said a word, but after a month or so they would disappear, never to return. Will started keeping his favourite images in a frame in his own office, which is really the comfy reading-room offshoot of the library. Yet here they are, preserved and well; baby scribbles and blotches, Toby’s three-legged dog, Vasili’s attempt at a family portrait, where their heads are all ballooned. There is no technical skill in these images; to someone of Hannibal’s caliber, they are offensive to all his artistic sensibilities.There is no pride to be gained for him here; merely sentiment. Will clutches the papers in disbelief, the overtly tender gesture that has been hidden, secreted away like pirate’s cache, a dragon’s hoard.

How very like Hannibal, to bury any trace of human weakness so deeply even he is unable to admit it to himself. Instead he must keep trophies of a life he has observed from the side-lines, rather than participating in. So many opportunities, lost. Their boys are almost grown now; he will never get them back. Will wants to be furious, but it is pity that wells in his heart. Pity for this beast he loves, capable of astonishing acts of cruelty, but stymied by his ability to love. Unable to cope revealing it, to the point no one believes it possible of him.

Will cries for the loss he has endured; the loneliness and isolation that came from every deflected comment, and for his boys, who have suffered the insecurity of rejection, needlessly. He grieves for the life they could have had, if Hannibal were able to communicate outside of grandiose gesture. He doesn’t notice when gentle hands remove the precious keepsakes, allowing himself to be gathered into a warm embrace, until the shudders stop.

“Did you really believe I held no regard for our children, mylimasis?” Hannibal lets out a soothing hum, stroking Will’s back, like one would comfort a sickly child.

“Maybe I convinced myself it was less fervent than it should be,” Will whispers, stricken. “You never seemed concerned with their emotional wellbeing. I know you love them.” He craves eye contact suddenly, sitting back abruptly to get it. He places one hand on Hannibal’s jaw, smoothing the muscle there, slightly wrinkled, now. But still handsome.

“I know you do,” he reiterates, “In your own way, I know you love them. I just always thought that your love was...” He trails off, searching for an adequate descriptor, but comes up empty.

“Conditional,” Hannibal supplies. “On intelligence, perhaps, or some other arbitrary distinction.”

Will cringes, ashamed, but Hannibal won’t let him slip too far away. Forced to confront his own assumption, his own shortcomings.

“I would be more concerned, if I thought the children shared your supposition. For all my flaws, I do not think an inability to express myself can really be said to be one of them.” Hannibal’s lips pursed, then smoothed into a smile. “I admit that I am not so physically affectionate. And you know how I value my self-control.”

“Yes,” says Will, “I have been blind.”

“No, my love.” Hannibal shook his head, “Blinkered, perhaps. Preoccupied. I cannot fault you for being overprotective. They are our little ones. I too am at fault. I should have been more explicit in my intention. I did not intend to bring this grief upon you.”

“You did place the burden of child-reading on me,” Will could not keep the accusatory tone out of his voice, “You can’t deny that.”

“And I would not try to,” Hannibal counters, “But you must consider my position. I am not the kind of man that ought to have an undue influence on developing minds. I know that you understand that. Distance as a method of preservation.”

“Could you not have controlled your urge to manipulate?” Will snarks, “You of such famous self-control.”

“Why risk something so precious?”

Will ducks away, uncertain. Hannibal's answers are so smooth, so polished. But his natural suspicion is tempered by the possibility that he could being unjust. Could he have gotten it so wrong, all these years? Or is this just another clever misdirection?

How much of a risk would it be, to allow himself to believe this pleasant fiction? And what terrible truth might Hannibal be hiding behind this particular smokescreen, that Will might stumble across if he blows too hard and sees what lies beneath.

He takes a deep breath, and sees the tunnels that lay before him. One of bleak, mawkish misery, where there is no tenderness to be found. Another with a glimmer of light at the close, small but still visible. Will chooses to swallow Hannibal's truth, for the sake of his sanity, to follow that speck of light. All for the love of his boys.


End file.
